


Contact High

by hellkitty



Category: RoboCop - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Frottage, Mechaphilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On twitter the other day, a friend and I were lamenting the lack of a proper RoboCop kink meme because god knows I need flimsy excuses in which to wrap my shame. </p><p>Which lead to this prompt: "While doing research, Clara stumbles across the Weird Part of the Internet and...gets ideas. May or may not include Alex dysphoria/angst". </p><p>I presume the weird part of the internet is <s>my old xeno fic</s> Ratbat's art. </p><p>Clearly, I am utterly without shame and decency so if you have ideas you're too tired/lazy/bored/decent and self-aware to write, pitch 'em at me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contact High

It was one of those 3 am things, she rationalized later. It was one of those insomnia-driven attempts to occupy her mind with something other than the endless cycle of worry and anxiety. She'd made the mistake of googling before bed some of the injuries Dr Norton had described, and had woken up, stiff with nightmares, transferring all those stories, all those possibilities, onto Alex. Yes, he had a body that could move, but it wasn't his body; it wasn't him.

She didn't remember what she'd even typed, or if she'd clicked a link somewhere on one of the articles about cybernetic prosthesis patients, but all she knew is the next moment her screen was filled with a picture, fine ink hand drawing, of a naked woman and a robot. At first she'd laughed, because it looked like the x-rated version of the old science fiction novels her father read when she was a little girl, where a steely robot menaced a woman in an improbable bikini, but then it felt like something hit her gut, or a little lower down, wringing at it like squeezing out some juice, and she'd found thumbnail after thumbnail, clicking each, feeling herself blush, thighs squirming together, and even look to the door just in case somehow for some reason David had gotten up in the middle of the night.

It was one of those 3 am things, but it didn't leave her, even in the height of that day, or that night, where her mind substituted the angular alien robots with Alex, her hands imagining graphene armor under them.

It was wrong--probably wrong. But no, he was her husband. There was nothing wrong, nothing shameful, about fantasizing about having sex with your husband, she told herself.

If nothing else, Clara, she thought wryly, you're becomng a queen of rationalizing. In fact, she rationalized herself into making that phone call, waiting until Alex's workday was over, and David had gone to his friend's house after soccer, so there would be no--all right, very few--awkward questions. She told Alex only that she wanted him to come over, now, tonight, and when he'd asked, she'd simply said she'd explain when he got here.

It wasn't a trick, really, she thought. She hadn't lied, she just hadn't felt up to explaining what she was thinking, especially not over the phone, where she couldn't see his face. She wasn't even sure she could put what she was thinking into words, honestly. All she could do was count the minutes till she heard the now-familiar rev of the motorcycle engine pulling up to the driveway.

She could feel her pulse everywhere, in her throat, her wrists, a mix of adrenaline and arousal and 'Clara what in God's name do you think you're doing' making her aware of everything: the feel of her blouse against her skin, the way the late afternoon sunlight turned the front curtains to gold, the sharpening silhouette as Alex's tall frame approached, even the soft hydraulic hiss of his movements through the door.

Clara opened it before he could ring the bell, a perhaps-too-giddy smile on her face. "Come in," she said, and it took every ounce of her strength to keep her eyes on his face, not letting them wander down his body, the broad plates of his shoulders, the taper to the sleek waist, the line of the overlapping scales on his abdomen....

He moved inside, half-turning as she closed the door, the movement whirring the gimbals that kept his balance. "Clara, what's happened? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong," she said, aware her voice was a little high, a little keyed up, and even if she was doing an A-1 job of keeping her eyes in check, it wasn't helping her mind, which was still filled with those thoughts from last night, wondering what he tasted like, how he'd feel, how the silver armor's gloss caught the light. It was almost hard to believe now that she's been so put off the first time she saw him: how big he was, how much was mechanical and strange, how hard and cool the chestplate she'd rested her cheek on was. He was big, he was powerful...and he'd never knowingly, willingly hurt her. If that wasn't sexy as hell, she didn't know what was.

"Are you sure?" The head tilted, another whispering sound. It was fascinating, really, now that she thought of it, how easily humans moved, and how complex it was to even come close to approximating it with actuators and telefactors. And it gave him a strange grace; each movement smooth and precise.

Unlike the flailing that was going on inside her head. Now that he was here, right here, in front of her, any thought that she'd be able to make a good explanation, the plan that she'd sit down like a mature woman and explain what she was thinking and what she wanted to try--Clara swore she felt those ideas fall out of her head and clatter on the floor like Legos.

So she did the first--the only--thing that popped into her head: she closed in, rising up on her tiptoes, arms wrapping around his neck, feeling the heavy cowling above his shoulders, and pulling him into a kiss.

For a moment, he let go, and it was just like before, his mouth warm on hers, tongue pushing and insistent. But then she felt his hands around her stiffen, pull away, a moment later. "Clara," he began, but his voice was thick, and not at all disinterested, his hand--his human hand--lingering on her shoulder, feeling the heat of her body through the thin fabric, pulling away, but not entirely.

She shook her head, moving to place a finger on his lips before taking his hand--the other one, black and metallic and cool, a hand that could probably crush the bones in her hand without effort, feeling it flex, cautiously, hesitantly, as she led him back through the house--his house--to the bedroom.

He tried to balk at the bedroom door, feet planted, eyes wide and a little frantic. "Clara. I can't--" He shook his head, trying to disentangle himself from her.

"You can, baby. Come in. Just come in and lie down." She saw his eyes flick to the bed, could almost see the memories washing over him, how many nights they'd tangled there together, sometimes damp with passion, sometimes just lying, bodies touching, bare skin to bare skin, finding pleasure enough in that. He'd held her the first night she'd come home from the hospital after David, fingers light like spring breezes on her skin, as though she were so fragile she might shatter. It had made her feel special, cherished, and she wanted to feel that now, that same touch, that same tenderness.

She could feel, she swore, the desire and the regret collide, but it had broken his resistance, and when she tugged at his hand, he stepped inside, over the threshold, his footsteps soft on the plush carpet.

A hiss of hydraulics, and he lowered himself, sitting on the mattress, looking up at her, and there was something in his eyes she couldn't read. Not yet. "Lie down," he repeated, as though checking he'd heard her right.

She nodded, fighting her own quickening breath, seeing him seated there, the hard armor and the silky sheets almost a study in contrasts. "Lie down," she said. "I want to...know you, Alex." There, that was as close as she could come to saying it, and something, a half apology, tumbled out after it. "Alex, you're my husband. I want...do you not want to be touched?"

His gaze remained on her face for a long moment, unmoving, no sound in the room, no soft whisper of machinery, only her breathing, only the rustling shift of fabric as she moved closer, bending to brush a hand over his cheek, the black framing under his jaw, a wistful, wanting smile on her lips. He didn't have to, if he didn't want to, but oh God she did, more than ever now, that tingling curiosity building to an absolute ache.

He didn't answer, not in words: his hands moved back on the mattress, behind him, and, his eyes still on hers, as though he could finally read what she was thinking, he lowered his shoulders down onto the cream-colored comforter.

Clara moved on top of him, straddling one of his thighs, knees squeezing over the armor, feeling the hardness, watching the reaction on his face as she slid up his body, fingers curious, tracing the gaps and lines of the complicated system of plates that gave him protection and movement, covering powerful machinery beneath, her blond hair falling over her shoulders to touch his chest, her eyes bright with want and wonder.

***

There wasn't a lot left of Alex Murphy: his hand, his face, a few internal organs. But there was enough left to feel, acutely, agonizingly, this moment, when the woman he loved, who had carried their child, who had lain by him every night, let her fingers roam over the cold metal of his body, knowing what she wanted--and wanting it, too--but knowing also it...couldn't happen. It wasn't a case of 'the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak'. The flesh was gone, missing, not even a factor.

And Norton had brought up the subject once or twice, obliquely, hints about 'marital relations'. Alex had cut him off each time, like a teenager not wanting to suffer the humiliation of The Talk. Especially not from Dennett, for Christ's sake. He'd thought nothing could be more mortifying than his high school hockey coach's stumbling lecture: he had a suspicion Dennett would topple that record.

He just wasn't ready. He didn't want to think about it, either in Norton's probably precise and clinical language, or anything else. The idea of it was still too raw a wound, too new. How can you call yourself a man when you...don't have that basic feature of one?

And here he was, suddenly, mouth still almost burning from the kiss, full of the scent of her, memories of her, of before. It was a new kind of suffering, the sudden surge of desire, of want, colliding brutally against his knowledge that it couldn't happen, it was some unfunny joke, some bitter irony, to live for her, to live to see her again, but always have this distance, silver and black graphene, between them.

He couldn't be a husband to her, not that way. And if he couldn't...didn't she deserve better? Didn't she deserve someone who could? He was pretty sure the marriage vows didn't cover this. For better, for worse, for traumatic removal of everything you  knew and loved about the other? He had a wild, sudden memory: some factoid from a history class in college, that in the Middle Ages just about the only grounds for divorce was not fulfilling the 'conjugal debt' or something.

Even they had it figured out.

He didn't: his brain was a tossing sea of confusion and conflicting desires. He knew he should stop her, take her hands by those wrists, strong and slender, lift her gently away, try to explain. He knew he should...but he couldn't bring himself to; another part of him seemed to push into the touch, a sort of phantom limb syndrome he'd never heard about, like the memory of the body he had was a tangible thing, acting on instinct, and taking the mechanical one along. He felt the servos along his spine fire, his chassis arching up against her, feeling the warm soft press of her breasts on the hard metal, the slide of his thigh between hers.

That was...not pushing her away, Alex. Kind of the opposite: she gave a breathy sound, and her thighs squeezed the one they had trapped, and he felt her press harder, grinding over the ridged silver cuisse.

He could sense heat and pressure, and only those, through the mechanical parts, and if he concentrated very carefully, he could get some vague sense of texture, breaking pressure down into micromeasurements. Even so, it was blunt and imprecise. It wasn't the same as feeling, it wasn't the same as if he'd been a man, wearing jeans, feeling her against him.

It wasn't like it at all, but it didn't stop a sound like a groan from pulling itself from his throat. She shot him a gratified look, chin resting on the lowered divide between his chestplates, mouth in a sultry sort of smile. "Good?"

"Clara, I...can't..do...." His hand moved helplessly, a headless snake. He couldn't do anything. Hell, he couldn't even make the words to explain it. He almost wished Dennett were here--despite how incredibly awkward that would be. He'd probably have a slideshow, but at least she'd understand.

"Don't worry about that," she said, rocking up, and he felt her whole body slide over his, the way her sex rode over his thigh into his hip, her breasts pressng higher on his chestplates and he could feel the sharp poke of her nipples among the softness, her hands finding his, pulling them off her body, half-pinning them to the bed beside his shoulders. "You don't have to do anything but lie here."

She had to be lying, trying not to hurt his feelings. But she didn't stop: in fact she flung her leg over to straddle his hips, and he could feel the pressure of the seam of her jeans on the curved armor over what would have been his crotch, now immune, insensate; his mind informing him in flashes of memory, visual, tactile, everything, of what was on the other side of that layer of cloth.

Clara's hands released their grips on his wrists, sliding up into the palms, fingers weaving between the webbing of his own hands, one warm, almost hypersensitized to her touch, the other cool and chitinous and black: the sensation like statically charged satin.

"You're amazing, baby," she murmured, and he felt her hands squeeze his, felt her sit up, lifting his left hand in hers, his arm following with smooth motion, as she sat up, weight over his thighs. She held his hand up, placed hers against it, palm to palm, the way little kids measure hand size, and he could see how small hers was, how delicate, and fragile, and he could feel the living warmth of it, the pulse of blood, fast and aroused, through her fingertips. And he realized she meant this was amazing, the mechanical part of him, a hand that could crush the bones in her hand, that was designed to withstand fire, and crushing, and ballistics. A hand that was invulnerable in all the ways Alex Murphy had been all too vulnerable.

She raised his hand to her cheek, eyes closing as she nuzzled against the open palm, his fingertips barely daring to touch her, the peach-like softness of her cheek, the fall of her hair. He couldn't think of a response and he was starting to feel stupid before all of this, mute and clumsier with words than his body.

The nuzzle ended with a lick along one finger, the trigger finger, like she knew it was the one most calibrated for touch, before rising backwards, her hands moving to the hem of her blouse, crossed, the way a woman took her clothes off--not like a guy who'd grab a bunch of fabric between his shoulderblades and haul up. Clara's hands found the hem, and lifted, uncrossing as they moved the fabric over her head, revealing the bare, pale skin of her belly, and it was like some kind of ballet move, until the pink blouse slid down off her arms, landing on his thighs behind her. Pink, the color he'd always loved her in, the one that said 'nice girl but not too innocent'.

The bra was white, lacy, showing just as much as it was hiding, her breasts held in round swells over it, and the desire he had overrode everything right now--his common sense, his hesitation--and he pulled her down, closer, tipping his face up to bury himself for a moment between them, breathing the warm, soft, living scent of her, the scent that wasn't perfume or lotion or powder or fabric softener or any scent other than Clara, human and wonderful.

Alex felt a loosening--she'd reached behind her back, unfastening the bra, and the lacy fabric fell away, the straps sliding down her shoulders, her arms, onto his throat, her breasts bare against his touch.

What could he do? He couldn't even summon the thought of pushing her away now, his hands splaying awkwardly against her back, the newly bared skin,his mouth nuzzling one of the breasts, feeling, tasting, the softness and fluid weight of it, until his tongue found the nipple, toying with it, sucking it into his mouth.

He felt her gasp--through her skin, through the movement of her ribs against him--felt the more urgent, more insistent press of her against his belly, riding the ridge of plating. And she kept a litany of words, or sounds that were half words, melded with little mewls of pleasure, and his name, over and over, and the sound of his name in her voice was fuel to an already roaring, helpless fire, any last resistance buckling under the heat of her desire, the knowledge that she wanted this, wanted him, like this, that he was watching her rushing toward a climax the way he had so many times....

before.

It wasn't much, but it was more than he'd thought he'd have, and he flexed his spine, bowing the ridge of armor on his stomach up into the insistent, riding contact, denim and some flimsy lacy panty between them. Her hips tipped forward, and he could swear he could feel the hot throb of her clit through everything between them, pushing against the unyielding black.

"Oh god," she cried, arching away from his mouth, the nipple teased and red from his tongue, the graze of his teeth. _"Alex!"_

He felt her shudder, through her whole body, the thighs clamp over his hips, her head thrown back, eyes taking that rapt sheen of orgasm.

He felt his own mouth shift, almost to echo the shape of hers, feeling the receding throbs of her climax against his belly, and he could swear he could feel it in his hands, through her body, in the air around him.

His own desire, that painful need, was gone, somehow, as though it had been evaporated by the heat of her release, and he felt...loose, light, the air around her almost sparkling in his visual field. He had an idle thought of what must be happening to his neuroscan back in the station, what Norton would be thinking, and the thought threw him into a giddy kind of laughter.

It felt good to laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, especially not like this, his entire body shaking, tears nearly welling in the corners of his eyes. He tried to force it back, in case Clara thought he was laughing at her, stroking his hands down her sides, but when she looked down at him, her face split into a matching grin, her nose wrinkling like it always did when she was really, truly happy. Even the thought that the last time he'd seen her smile like that, fighting her own laughter, was too damn long ago couldn't do anything to tarnish this moment. "That was...weird," he said, because he had to say something, wanting to join this moment together for both of them. It was almost like high school, the nervous fumbling through clothes and one's own inexperience, too shy to admit desire, perhaps a little afraid of it.

"No," she said, leaning forward, planting a kiss on the top of the cowling over his brow, then the tip of his nose, then his mouth, "that was wonderful."


End file.
